


deep throat

by susiecarter



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: Antagonism, Complicated Relationships, Confrontations, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Canon, Restraints, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Bubonic's security was good.Not that Tommy had expected any less—of course Bubonic would take it seriously, wanted man and all. Of course he couldn't possibly make one single goddamn thing easy.
Relationships: Bubonic/Tommy Calligan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34
Collections: Fandom Giftbox 2020





	deep throat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> ♥
> 
> Title because I don't love myself enough not to use a terrible pun that references both outside informants assisting in criminal investigations and blow jobs, when one is sitting right in front of me. :D

Bubonic's security was good.

Not that Tommy had expected any less—of course Bubonic would take it seriously, wanted man and all. Of course he couldn't possibly make one single goddamn thing easy.

But there was something weird about it. About thinking Bubonic had _physical_ security measures. Analog. About thinking he was real: a person, a body, who took up space in the world.

He'd never seemed like that to Tommy before. There had always been a screen between them, one way or another—and the one time there hadn't, dim half-formed memory of that plague doctor's mask leaning down over Tommy while the world blurred and swam, he'd been as good as a mirage, the next best thing to a hallucination.

Bubonic had been texts on a phone, a glowing dot on a tracking screen, a laughing figure in a video.

But now, maybe, Tommy was finally actually going to stand in the same room with him.

And he was going to have to figure out how to do that without punching Bubonic in the face.

There was a bag over his head. He was stumbling along, being guided vaguely down a hallway, and that was after forty-five minutes in a car—which under other circumstances might have given Tommy a radius, except for all he knew, he'd been driven around four blocks in a cloverleaf the whole time, and Bubonic would pick up and move the second he left anyway.

The light changed, somewhere outside the bag. The hallway had been dark; but Tommy was pushed forward, and his leg hit a chair, and yeah, there was definitely a light shining down in here.

He could have felt for the chair, maneuvered around it, seated himself. He didn't. He didn't want to cooperate with this melodramatic bullshit any more than he absolutely had to.

He was pushed, hustled around the chair and then shoved until he had no choice but to land in it. His hands were cuffed behind him, which made it a little less than comfortable—and he had to wait for somebody else to yank the bag off.

The light wasn't that bright. But it was a lot brighter outside the bag than it had been under it, and Tommy was left squinting, eyes tearing up reflexively.

Basic theatrics: disorienting people, putting them off-balance. But knowing what Bubonic was trying to pull here didn't make it any easier to see.

Tommy blinked furiously, clenched his hands up tight behind him and made himself breathe, and after a second he could pick out that there was somebody there, a figure in the dimness.

And as if Bubonic knew that Tommy'd finally managed to get his eyes to focus properly, that was the moment he stepped forward, into the circle of light.

Tommy stared at him, and then, helpless, laughed.

"Jesus," he said.

Bubonic smiled. "Not quite," he murmured, "but I do like to think I've taken inspiration from his example. He wasn't exactly beloved by law enforcement, you know. Bit of a troublemaker."

"You son of a bitch," Tommy said.

"Ouch," Bubonic said, mild, mouth forming a moue as if he felt hurt. "I suppose the usual thing to say would be that it wasn't personal—but we both know it was, don't we, Detective Calligan?"

"You _broke into my apartment_ ," Tommy bit out.

"Actually, I didn't," Bubonic said. "By the time I got there, somebody had already forced the door. Remarkable, how people will take the initiative if you give them the opportunity. Wouldn't you agree?"

"You—" Tommy stopped, throat tight. God. He wanted to come to his feet, grab the chair; even with his hands behind him, he could grip it, turn and slam it into Bubonic's knees. But—

But that wasn't what he was here for. He wasn't here to get back at Bubonic for that fucking stunt, and he wasn't here to beat Bubonic into the floor.

If he'd known—if he'd known who he'd been looking at, that day, finding that guy in his apartment, pulling his gun—he'd have done something.

But he hadn't, and that wasn't what he was here for.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, and reined himself carefully in.

"Fine," he said aloud. "You got one over on me. Congratulations."

"I think I got about five or six over on you that day, actually," Bubonic corrected coolly.

"Sure," Tommy ground out. "Whatever you say."

"Why, how agreeable of you, Detective Calligan," Bubonic said. His eyes had gone sharp, a little narrow. "You must need my help very badly indeed."

Tommy tensed. "I didn't say—"

"You might as well have." Bubonic smiled at him, and the smile was cold and a little pitying. "Coming all this way to see me, heeding my every instruction. You need _something_ from me. If I hadn't known that, I'd have kept the mask on. But I don't need it, because I imagine I'll be able to extract just about any promise I want from you, in return for whatever it is you're so desperate for."

Tommy swallowed, and clenched his fists tighter.

"A case," he made himself say.

"Yes, yes, of course," Bubonic said. "You are so charmingly predictable sometimes, Detective Calligan. What is it? Encryption you can't crack? Files you can't retrieve? A trail you can't follow—but you're hoping I can?"

"Something like that," Tommy gritted out.

"And lives hang in the balance," Bubonic intoned, with mock solemnity. "You're out of options. You have nowhere else to turn." He leaned down a little, eyes searching Tommy's face, and Tommy almost wanted to flinch, twist away so he couldn't find whatever it was he was looking for, except Bubonic didn't need the gratification.

"Yes," he said, low.

Bubonic clapped his hands together, brisk. "Fantastic! Well, go on, then."

Tommy raised an eyebrow.

Bubonic smiled. "Ask."

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck. He'd known. He'd known Bubonic would milk this for all it was worth.

"Will you help me," he forced out.

"Oh, come on," Bubonic murmured, and he'd leaned closer, Tommy could tell even without looking: the sound of his voice, the clarity with which Tommy could hear it even though it had softened, and some deeper subconscious awareness of _nearness_ , Tommy's every nerve shrieking at him. "Come on. You can do better than that, Detective Calligan."

"Will you—will you help me?"

"Please," Bubonic offered, after a moment.

"Please," Tommy grated out.

Bubonic fell silent. Tommy abruptly lost track of him, couldn't tell where he was or what he might be doing; it felt like there was no sound in the room at all, except Tommy's breathing and the rush of his blood in his ears.

"I didn't realize I was rubbing off on you so thoroughly," he said at last, sounding almost contemplative.

"What?"

"Treating this like a game. I know you, Detective Calligan. This must be extremely important to you. You wouldn't be here if it weren't. And yet you're too busy trying not to give ground here to make a real effort." Bubonic made a tsking sound, chastising.

And the hell of it was, Tommy thought, he was right.

This was important. Tommy couldn't afford to put his pride above the case. It was that simple.

He dug his teeth into his lip. He made himself look up, met Bubonic's eyes, and he said, "Please. Please help me."

Bubonic drew a sharp breath. For a moment, he didn't move. He was just staring at Tommy, gaze heavy, and it felt like all the air had left the room.

And then he started to grin, slow, delighted, and god, Tommy could have fucking strangled him.

"Much better," he murmured. "Bravo."

Jesus.

"I suppose," he added, tilting his head, "I could be of some assistance to you. And since you asked so nicely, I'd be willing to make the effort. For a price."

Tommy gritted his teeth. "What, making me beg wasn't enough? We're not going to _arrest_ you, asshole. We're not paying you on top of it—"

"Who said anything about money?" Bubonic murmured. "I don't need your thirty pieces of silver, Detective Calligan. If I were so inclined, I could drain the NYPD's accounts myself with a few hours' work. No, no. It simply occurs to me that if I do this for you, it would only be fair for you to agree in turn to do something for me."

"Fine," Tommy snapped. "What do you want?"

And Bubonic looked at him, mouth slanting, gaze amused, and shrugged one shoulder with elegant ease, and said quietly, "I want you to suck me off."

Tommy stared at him. He couldn't—he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. His face had gone instantly hot. He couldn't have heard that right. Surely he hadn't heard that right.

"What?" he managed, half-strangled.

Bubonic's mouth quirked further. He reached out and set a hand on Tommy's shoulder, leaned down even closer than he had before—and with the other hand, before Tommy could so much as twist back out of the way, he gripped Tommy by the jaw: tipped his head. And then he said it again, soft, breathing the words right into Tommy's ear.

"Suck me off."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No, Detective Calligan," Bubonic said, drawing away just far enough to meet Tommy's eyes again—to make it clear he meant it. "I'm not fucking kidding you," and when he spoke the words they were level, even, measured, nothing like the way Tommy had ground them out between his teeth. "You knew what you were doing, when you came here. You didn't send your Captain Shaw—does she even know where you are?"

Tommy set his jaw, and didn't answer.

"And you didn't make an arrangement with your friend Yeager. _You_ came. You came, because you knew you could get my attention. You knew you already had it. You thought you could use that fact to get what you needed. And you can, Detective Calligan." Bubonic paused; something flickered across his face that Tommy couldn't name. "You are. Do you think there's anyone else in the world— _anyone_ —who could get what you're asking for from me at so low a price?"

"A _blowjob_ —" Tommy sputtered.

"When there's so much more I could demand of you," Bubonic agreed, with sudden viciousness. "There's so much more I could take from you. You know that. And instead, all I'm asking for is a little something you do recreationally of your own free will."

Tommy flushed hotter, swallowing.

It had been a while. But—Bubonic wasn't wrong. And jesus, how did he know? How had he found out? He had a lot of Tommy's life at his fingertips already, he'd proven that on their anniversary; but Tommy hadn't thought he'd bother to—to—

"The answer is," Bubonic was adding, in a low voice, "no one. There's no one else who could ask this of me, and no one else I'd give it to. I'm being _generous_ to you, Detective Calligan." That smug mouth quirked again. "Obscenely so, one might say."

"Jesus," Tommy muttered.

"And, of course," Bubonic said, and then moved: kept holding Tommy's face with one hand, but slid the other from his shoulder down—down the line of his arm, and then, where it bent behind him because he was cuffed, skipping to his waist. His waist, his hip, his ass, and jesus, _squeezing_ , and Tommy wanted desperately to squirm away, to kick Bubonic in the nuts, except that would ruin everything. He couldn't afford to. Fuck. "Of course," Bubonic repeated, "there are other kinds of favors I could insist on, if you refuse to be reasonable."

Shit.

Tommy swallowed; it hurt, his throat dry and choked up tight.

It was true. If he pushed, if he tried to get Bubonic to back down—Bubonic could just jack the price up higher, make it worse. Tommy couldn't leave without getting him to agree, or this entire fucking trip had been a waste, and he'd be nowhere with this case, too.

He squeezed his eyes shut. God. He couldn't do this. He _couldn't_ do this.

But he had to.

"Fine," he made himself say. "Fine. I'll do it."

He forced himself to look up. And Bubonic was gazing down at him, dark-eyed and triumphant.

Bubonic moved his hand, stretched out his thumb and pressed it against Tommy's mouth.

"Well," he said, almost gently. "Go on, then."

He took a half-step back, looked at Tommy and then at the concrete floor, and raised his eyebrows.

And Tommy drew himself forward to the edge of the chair, and—jesus, fuck, he couldn't be doing this, he couldn't be doing this—let himself tip off it, came down on his knees, with his wrists still cuffed behind him.

"Good," Bubonic said, and god, there was something about the way that word sounded coming out of his mouth, the way his cool dismissive tone twisted it around and made it mean the opposite of what it was supposed to, that made Tommy's skin prickle hot with—

With anger. That had to be what it was.

Bubonic wasn't wearing a belt. He popped the button of his jeans, unzipped the fly, easy as anything, long pale fingers—even without the context, there was something obscene about it, those clever hands that could change the world with a keyboard under them now busy with something as base and crude as tugging his boxers down and pulling his dick out of his pants. And god, he was hard already. He'd—he must have been thinking about this, planning it. Relishing the thought of making Tommy do this, the whole time he'd been waiting in here to have Tommy brought to him—

"Come on," he said, eyebrows raised, impatient.

Because of course he was going to make Tommy come to him. Of course he was going to make Tommy _work_ for this.

Tommy gritted his teeth and stumbled a knee-walked step, screwed his eyes shut and made himself sway in. And Bubonic caught him by the hair, and fuck, that was the hot smooth head of his cock touching Tommy's closed mouth, it had to be. Tommy sucked in a breath through his nose, and parted his lips; and Bubonic laughed, breathless, gloating, and shoved his cock into Tommy's mouth.

It was—it was too much too fast, it was—Tommy jerked and coughed a little in the back of his throat, but Bubonic still had a hand in his hair, clenched tight, and he couldn't get very far.

"Oh, you can do better than that, Detective Calligan," Bubonic said chidingly. "Come on. Deeper."

Jesus. Fuck. Tommy didn't want to do better. But it was like muscle memory: it hadn't been long enough since he'd done this that he didn't remember how it worked, and already the sensation of that hot thick weight on his tongue, pressing against the roof of his mouth, was loosening up his jaw, his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and _felt_ it happen, felt himself open up for it helplessly; and Bubonic sighed and slid another inch, another, into his mouth.

"There we go. Good," and Tommy panted an unsteady breath through his nose and tensed involuntarily.

He was going to squirm away. He was going to bite down. He was going to throw up on the floor, and tell Bubonic the deal was off, that he'd been out of his mind if he thought Tommy would—if he thought Tommy could ever bear to—

Bubonic held Tommy there by the hair, and drew out, and then pushed back in, a little faster this time; and Tommy knelt there, shaking, and took it, and shit. He was—he'd pressed his thighs together, and not because he was about to push away from Bubonic or get up, but in a pointless, mindless effort to generate some kind of friction or pressure on his own dick.

Because now he was hard, too.

"Good, much better," Bubonic said again, and Tommy was red and furious and hot all over, but he was pressing up with the flat of his tongue. He sucked hard, and he told himself it was vicious, too much pressure, except Bubonic seemed to like that: he had both hands clenched in Tommy's hair, now, and he tugged Tommy in, shoved his cock almost all the way to the back of Tommy's throat and then didn't let go. Tommy strained, trying to make himself breathe, and choked a little anyway; and Bubonic pulled him off and gave him a half-second to gasp, only the head of Bubonic's dick resting on his lip, and then did it again.

Again, and again.

Tommy could remember, dimly, that this was happening for a reason. He just didn't care anymore. The world had narrowed down to the hard cold circles of the cuffs around his wrists, the dull ache of his knees against the concrete; his cock, trapped, throbbing; and his mouth, the hot stinging feeling of his lips stretching, his throat already tight and sore. The _use_ he was being put to, and he shouldn't have loved it, but he did.

Bubonic was fucking into his mouth again. He leaned into it frantically, swallowed down as much as he could get. He'd given himself up to it, he couldn't help it, and Bubonic was—

Bubonic was pulling Tommy off him.

It took Tommy an extra second to understand it, and by then Bubonic had already tugged him away, was holding him there by the hair and staring down at him with sharp eyes. It was like Tommy had been kicked awake; he was suddenly all too conscious of what he must look like, how swollen and wet his mouth must be—that it was slack, open, as he panted for breath, like he was waiting for Bubonic to fill it up again—

Bubonic's eyes narrowed. He tilted his head.

"As I mentioned, Detective Calligan," he said, "you can be charmingly predictable. But I'll concede there are times when you surprise even me."

And he dropped to his own knees, still pulling Tommy's head back by the hair at an awkward angle, and gripped Tommy's cock through his jeans.

Tommy made a hoarse startled sound and jerked like he'd been burned, but Bubonic didn't let go, and jesus, that pressure was everything Tommy hadn't been able to give himself; he pushed into it helplessly, squeezing his eyes shut, and he was shaking all over and hated that Bubonic had to be seeing it, but he couldn't make it stop.

"Well, well, well," Bubonic murmured in his ear, and rubbed the heel of his palm up and down the length of Tommy's cock. And it burned, Tommy's boxers far from enough to shelter that sensitive skin from the friction of denim, but fuck, fuck, it was too much and not enough at the same time—Tommy caught a shout between his teeth and rolled his hips into Bubonic's hand, and Bubonic laughed.

He got Tommy off just like that, without even undoing Tommy's jeans. Working around the thick outline of Tommy's cock, until Tommy was wincing and wet-eyed and frantically rubbing off against his palm anyway, until Tommy choked and started to shudder—then he _squeezed_ , way too hard, and Tommy came in relentless pulses that racked his whole body.

It took Tommy a few minutes to catch his breath after. Then he opened his eyes, and wet his lips, and watched Bubonic watch him do it.

"That wasn't the deal," he said, and it came out low and throaty, it sounded like he'd been doing exactly what he'd been doing, and it shouldn't have been hot to hear his own voice like that, but shit, it was.

Bubonic looked at him.

"Quite right, Detective Calligan," he said after a moment. "How remiss of me to let myself get distracted."

He sat back—sat back, and parted his thighs, and god, he was going to let Tommy finish him after all.

Tommy swallowed, once, twice, and crawled up between Bubonic's legs; he couldn't hold himself up, his hands were still in the cuffs, but he could rest a shoulder, his upper arm, on Bubonic's thigh, and he did it.

And Bubonic sank a hand back into Tommy's hair, and didn't look away from Tommy's face as he closed that hand gradually tighter, tighter—as he started to pull, as the prickling sharp ache began to catch alight across Tommy's scalp, and Tommy bit down on a sound and let his eyes fall shut.

"Noted, Detective Calligan," Bubonic murmured. "Now, where were we?"

"Right about here, I think," Tommy said, and then closed his mouth around Bubonic's cock and let Bubonic tug him down, and jesus, it was so good he couldn't stand it.

There had to be something he could need Bubonic for once they'd closed this case, he thought dimly.

He'd just have to make sure of it.


End file.
